


The Interrogation

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl





	The Interrogation

The original illustration:  [community.livejournal.com/lifein1973/2008540.html](http://community.livejournal.com/lifein1973/2008540.html)

 

I watch Sam scoop a fingerful of Vaseline with the middle finger of his right hand.  He looks over his shoulder at me, thoughtfully, and then presents his bare arse, hitching his jacket and shirt up with his left hand.  He places his right hand, palm down, at the base of his spine, and lets his middle finger glide into the cleft.  He caresses his hole with the tip of his finger, leaving a glistening smear.  The bright light directly over my head casts a sharp shadow across the white curve of his buttock.  I notice details like this; I’m a fucking Chief Inspector, after all.

The sweat springs out on my temples.  I can feel the handcuffs biting into my nearly numb wrists, the loop of twine chafing my nutsack, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my painfully hard cock.  Again, DCI observational talents.

I don’t like being confined, tied up, unable to move.  Sam knows this.  I swear he gets off on it, the sick little bugger.  The twine around the nutsack was his idea.  “I’ll just make a slip knot, see, and tie the other end to the chair rungs.  That way you can’t move when I’m… well, you know.”

“Yer talking about tying twine around my balls and you can’t come right out and say what yer planning to do with me?  Jesus, Tyler.”

He had blushed, the charming little idiot.  “All right.  You won’t be able to move when I’m taking your cock up my arse.”

“That’s the spirit.”

So I’ve known, for the last thirty or so minutes, exactly what lies ahead in my future.  I’ve been able to imagine it while Sam stripped me, cuffed me, writhed around in my lap.  When he tugged my head back painfully and asked a litany of questions: how many cocks have I touched in my life? (answer: five)  How many have I had up my jacksie? (answer: one – his)  What is my favorite color? (answer: green.  But he knew that already).

I don’t like being interrogated but I do this for him.  Because he has done so many things for me, and it only seems fair.  Things ought to be (somewhat) reciprocal.  This policy has already led to me getting fucked up the arse, which turned out to be far more pleasurable than I ever would have imagined.  It has led to me sucking his cock in a dark alley, oblivious to the damp soaking into the knees of my trousers.  It has led to Sam giving me a handjob under a table, meanwhile carrying on a conversation across the room with Ray, pretending nothing is happening while I clench my hands around my pint and watch the game of darts.

But now.  Now I sit handcuffed and immobilized, watching as Sam draws circles around his own arsehole and then, finally, presses the pad of his finger in.  I am mesmerized as his finger disappears to the second knuckle.  He makes a noise, low and throaty.  He works his finger in and out, maybe ten inches from my face, and I’m twitching involuntarily.

“Fuck’s sake, Sam,” I mutter.

“Yeah?”  He straightens up, but it’s just to scoop up another glob of Vaseline.  He assumes the position once again and this time it’s two fingers and it’s closer, and I get to watch, and I stop inching my hips forward only because of the pain in my balls, and I close my eyes because it’s too hard—I’m too hard, it really hurts now.

“Gene.”  His voice is strained.

I swallow, open my eyes.  He’s looking over his shoulder at me again, and his other hand, the left, is moving, stroking himself.  “Yeah?” I manage to say.

“What’s your missus’s name?”

“Uh… beg pardon?”  He’s working fingers in his arse and he’s stroking himself, and as I watch the ring of his hole stretch around his fingers I want him, I want him, I want him…

“I’m asking the questions here.”  He’s doing those things, but there’s an edge to his voice and a coldness to his gaze and I remember that this is supposed to be an interrogation.

But I don’t have to make it easy for him.  “Sam,” I say, throwing my head back.  “My missus is Sam.”

He gives a snort of amusement.  “That right?”  He’s right in front of me, all he has to do is bend his knees…   He does.  Until my cock is resting in the cleft of his arse, and he rocks up and down a little, greasing me up, and then he pauses, presses against me.  Half an inch.

I jerk forward, yelp at the pain, close my eyes again and beg.  “Fuck, Sam… please…”

“Please what?”  He doesn’t even sound like himself, he’s so harsh.

“Please fuck my cock!  Please!”

“Your missus?”

I groan, desperate.  “Sam!  Sam!  Sam!”

He takes another inch.  He’s tight and hot around me and I’m mindless with need.  He rocks up and down infinitesimally, but his left hand is working furiously as if he’s trying to bring himself off without my participation.  It’s not fair.  It’s supposed to be fair, it’s supposed to be… reciprocal.  I’m supposed to be the sheriff. 

“Oh.  Oh, fuck.  Margaret.  Her name… is Margaret.”

And he slams down into my lap, so hard it must hurt him, and then he’s shifting so he’s straddling me, his hands on my knees and he’s working himself up and down on my cock, hard and fast and in just five, six strokes he’s crying out and it seems so loud in the enclosed space and I’m hoping, hoping no one has come in late at night, but then I’m drawing up and clenching and I thrust up into him as I come and I think I scream because it hurts and it’s so fucking good and it’s _Sam_ , it’s not Margaret, never Margaret like this…

He keeps riding me until I gasp, “Stop.”

He pulls off, staggers a few steps and then catches his balance.  He’s drenched, his shirt streaked with sweat under his leather jacket.  He raises his hands to scrub his face, then reconsiders and wipes them on his shirt.  He hobbles around to the back of my chair, works the handcuffs off, unties the string.  He chafes my numb wrists with gentle hands, then works gentle fingers around my groin, hissing in sympathy as he releases the slipknot and frees me.

“Gene.”  He falls slowly to his knees, his head against my thigh.  He’s still breathing hard.  “Are you OK?”

“Sam.”  I lift my nearly nerveless hand and place it on his shoulder.  “Yes.  Better.  Better than ever before.  Yes.”  And it’s true.

We rest there until we can bear to move.


End file.
